


And the clouds shape spells and memories

by theseatheseatheopensea



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Gen, Historium Commentfest 2019, Magic, Sentient Nature, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-11-19 12:17:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18135653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theseatheseatheopensea/pseuds/theseatheseatheopensea
Summary: The world is too big, but the magic goes all around, and it sends messages, it sends dreams. The magic wants to cross over. It wants to be found again. And it makes sense. There is no such thing as living in this world without it.All over the world, the magic comes back.





	And the clouds shape spells and memories

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this prompt](https://historium.dreamwidth.org/14759.html?thread=122535#cmt122535).

All over the world, they keep asking. _Where did the magic go? Why did it leave?_ Maybe someone took it away from them. Maybe they forgot the meaning, maybe they forgot the words. For such a long time, they forgot _how_. Or maybe they just grew tired.  
  
But now, every little corner of the world is awake. The day shows them the magic that has been lost. It is small and quiet, slowly stirring, but _alive_. Now, now they hear the call again. They hear the sea, and it moves and changes and calls. There are some things that it takes away, and some things that it brings back. And maybe today, it will bring them something. A dream. A spell.  
  
The world is too big, but the magic goes all around, and it sends messages, it sends dreams. The magic wants to cross over. It wants to be found again. And it makes sense. There is no such thing as living in this world without it.  
  
The magic is restless and wild, and it finds the way back. It starts in England, it starts out from the shoreline. It runs, runs away. It moves like a wave. It smells like the sea, thick and heavy, and it calls out to the seagulls. They fly away and scatter around in the air, like old words. They speak, they say _it's time, it's time_. The sunset brings the fire. And the wind brings the magic. It brings it back. And they all have to relearn it, look at it, breathe it in. Learn how to read it, how to truly _see_ it again.  
  
(In Italy, the cats' whiskers move and make starlight showers. Iparralde sings, it calls out to the mother earth. Across the water, in America, they look at the sky, and the clouds shape spells and memories. They send letters to England. They return, they bring new questions. They bring new answers.)  
  
This magic is new, but still old. It is something they know. Round and smooth, like a little stone. Safe, like a secret, like a spell. And it runs like water, like faith. It turns to wind and rain. It breathes thunder, and the sea breathes along with it. And the world does, too. The world goes silent. It stops, it will not fight it back. No, never again.  
  
In the morning, the air is crisp and electric, and all the birds stand still, as the dream becomes the sky. The world sounds out, and the world is sharp and loud. And the world and the magic look at each other, carefully, _carefully_ , like strangers. Like old friends. Like two halves, reunited as a whole. It is not a mistake. It is _not_. Not now, not ever. And the night hums and vibrates, pleased. And the sky sighs sofly, softly, and it coils and it whispers and it sleeps like the fog.  
  
The storm rolls in and it smells like magic. And the magic is good, and the magic is _right_. The magic makes them live and breathe and feel and _be_. It is sharp and wide-eyed, it is a wild, wild bird. It is the unexpected sting of the storm. It is here, right here, as if it had never left. And maybe it hasn't. Here it is. Here is the sea and the sky and the wind and the rain. Here is the star that says _look up, don't look away, don't forget, don't forget me_. Here is the spell. Here it is, like steps in the sand, like hands on the heart of the world. Here it is, here is the reminder.  
  
And they _know_.  
  
There is a big, wide open world. And there are dreams outside. Out there, all over, everything is bright and new and wide, wide open. And beautiful, _beautiful_. And the magic crosses over the sea, it crosses over the world. As it should. And it makes a note, to tell them all about it. To send them a memento of this trip, to say _thank you_ , thank you for bringing me back.  
  
All around the world, no one knows how the story ends. But it starts with a knock on the door. It always does.


End file.
